


Haze

by hudson



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Community: rounds_of_kink, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, PTSD, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hudson/pseuds/hudson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for rounds_of_kink: Character has lost his sexual drive because of the traumas that happened to them in canon. Their lover lovingly tries to coax their equipment back into reacting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haze

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal 12-25-2007, written around the beginning of Season 3, so this has pretty much all been Jossed and thus is AUish.

**Title:** Haze  
 **Fandom:** Prison Break  
 **Characters:** Michael/Lincoln (slash)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Summary:** Written for [info]rounds_of_kink: Character has lost his sexual drive because of the traumas that happened to them in canon. Their lover lovingly tries to coax their equipment back into reacting.  
 **Fanfic100 Prompt:** 020: Colorless  
 **Word Count:** 5,846  
 **Disclaimer:** Paul Scheuring and a whole lot of other people who aren’t me own Prison Break.  
 **Spoilers:** Takes place in a vague future, but no real spoilers past the beginning of Season 3.

-

The only reason they end up in Italy is because Lincoln notices the way that L.J. perks up when Michael throws out the suggestion – one amongst many in a long list of places they could head to now that they’re out of Panama and over the boarder in Costa Rica – and Michael knows that Lincoln is desperate above all to give back to L.J. some of the normal life that the boy has lost.

So they’re in Rome when it begins, though if Michael is honest with himself, it’s been building since the moment he entered Fox River. But now, with no plan left to think of and no one left to save, he can really feel it come creeping upon him, and he feels defenseless; completely unable to stop the deterioration that feels like a slowly-mounted attack upon his psyche.

-

The first time he realizes what’s happening to him, they’re on the couch facing the small window in the living room that overlooks a street teeming with cars, listening to L.J. snoring in the next room and watching the last of the day’s light fade from the sky. Lincoln brushes his fingertips across the back of Michael’s neck and Michael almost jumps out of his skin even though he knows that they’re the only two people in the room.

 _Lincoln, it’s just Lincoln_ he tells himself and turns to look at his brother, giving him what Michael hopes is a reassuring smile. Lincoln smiles back, small and guarded, and continues tracing Michael’s skin with his fingers. It’s a small gesture, one carefully made after so much time apart, but it’s been years since they’ve touched so intimately and even this cautious testing of the boundaries speaks volumes. And yet, at the same time, it makes Michael’s skin crawl.

He’s looking at Lincoln, and he knows the touch of his brother’s hand better than that of anyone else in the world. He trusts his brother implicitly. He’s sure of that fact. He repeats it to himself as Lincoln strokes up into his hair. But somehow it makes goosebumps break out across his flesh and his chest begins to tighten up as he feels Lincoln’s thumb brush over his ear.

Michael closes his eyes and releases a shuddering breath, and Lincoln must take that as a positive sign, because he leans in closer and puts his lips up to Michael’s ear – and all Michael can hear is T-Bag’s low, lilting voice spoken right into his ear so that it consumes him.

 _Hey there, Pretty._

Michael’s eyes snap open, and he leaps from the couch and stumbles across the small room to press his hands against the walls. He knows, he knows that he’s in their living room, with Lincoln right there next to him and L.J. just on the other side of the wall that is currently holding him up, but it suddenly feels like he’s alone with his brother and nephew just on the other side of some invisible barrier.

He forces himself to focus on the wall in front of him, to lean his forehead against it and concentrate on the feeling of the paint that chips easily under his fingernails as he digs them in, to hear Lincoln’s voice calling for him.

“Michael?” Lincoln’s voice is suddenly right there against him and it’s okay. It’s him. It’s them and they’re here, they’re all three of them here, and safe and okay and Michael’s not even sure what it was he was so freaked out over.

He blinks up at Lincoln and says, “yeah?”

Lincoln stares back at him for a moment with eyes full of concern, looking as if he’s speaking to a frightened animal. “Are you…what was that about?”

“Nothing,” Michael replies quickly, shaking his head and pushing himself away from the wall. “I don’t know – just got hard to breathe for a minute,” which isn’t a complete lie, and now he’s feeling dumb enough about his brief panic that he really can’t think of what exactly brought it on.

Lincoln makes a grunted-noise that says he really doesn’t believe that, but nods and lets it drop, reaching a hand out carefully to pat Michael on the shoulder and then steps away.

“I guess, um, guess I’ll go to bed then,” Lincoln says. They’ve been alternating who takes the couch and who sleeps in the sleeping bag on the floor, and tonight is Lincoln’s night to get the couch but he starts unzipping the sleeping bag and moving towards the corner of the room, and Michael’s heart shifts in his chest at the sight.

“Hey,” he calls out softly to his brother. Lincoln glances up from the zipper that seems to be caught on the fabric of the sleeping bag. “We could share the couch. If you want.”

Lincoln looks down and nods, saying, “I was thinking about that. You didn’t really seem like you want to, though.”

Which is exactly what Michael had hoped his brother wouldn’t assume, because he does want that. He’s always wanted Lincoln, wanted to be with him and near him and to touch him and curl up next to him and kiss him and just _be_ with him. But Lincoln has always been the one to pull away first, to alternate between pulling Michael in and keeping him at a distance, to confuse Michael with what he really wants – _who_ he really wants – while Michael’s focus has always been squarely planted on Lincoln, even through passing interests in others.

So he says quietly but as firmly as possible, “I do. I do want to.”

Lincoln nods and finally untangles the zipper from the cloth, then opens the sleeping bag up wide and heads slowly back over to the couch. He doesn’t look up until he’s standing right beside Michael and then looks him straight in the eye. Michael looks right back.

They maneuver around the couch awkwardly, and in the midst of their fumbling Lincoln grumbles that he’s going to look for a pullout tomorrow. They end up with Lincoln on his back with his head laying against the arm-rest and Michael half on top of him and half tucked against the back of the couch, and it feels so very domestic that it’s almost a little weird, even considering the level of intimacy they’ve reached in the past. Michael feels a bit like a newly married couple sharing the small space of their first apartment together, and that thought does bring him some comfort.

They can be normal. It is possible.

-

It’s almost a month before Lincoln tries anything more than sleeping together again, and some days Michael feels like he’s walking through a fog.

Lincoln works, mostly grunt jobs that pay very little and tire him out – cleaning, construction, painting, hanging signs – and Michael and L.J. practice their Italian until L.J. feels comfortable enough to start thinking about school again. They walk through the city together during the day, and Michael does his best not to let on when it feels like the people are getting too close and the buildings are closing in around him. It comes on slowly, this, much differently than the surges of panic that attack him occasionally for no specific reason.

They walk and toss around Italian phrases – _Mi chiamo Michael. Le piace l’opera? Devo fare un telefonata,_ – and sometimes Michael catches a glance of something out of the corner of his eye – something that is just not right though he can’t say for sure what as his head whips around only to discover that there is nothing there but pigeons or tourists or businessmen or whatever other completely normal thing. They’re discussing irregular verbs when Michael is sure that he’s spotted Mahone – he turns his head quickly and grabs L.J. by the shoulder, digs his fingers into his nephew as his throat constricts and he starts getting dizzy with fear, stares _right at Mahone,_ and then somehow the man is gone, as if carried away just as suddenly by whatever part of Michael’s brain conjured him up. Because Mahone is dead, and Michael knows this, but he knows just as clearly that he saw the other man standing right there before him just a moment ago, and he feels the ache of _something’s not right within him._

It’s not the last time it happens.

It’s a month after they began sharing the couch, and Lincoln runs his hand down Michael’s back as they lay together late in the night. The casual slide of that hand against his skin isn’t unusual, but then Lincoln dips his fingers lower, down into the waistband of Michael’s shorts, and moves his head just a bit. A moment later Michael feels his brother’s lips brush against his hairline and he tries not to tense up. Lincoln moves slowly, somehow able to sense Michael’s fear even before Michael has been able to put a name to it himself, so Michael breathes slowly and deeply, willing himself to trust his brother.

Lincoln brushes the pad of his thumb lightly across the skin of Michael’s behind, giving it a gentle squeeze to let his intentions be known, and then moves his lips across Michael’s brow as his hands continue to run softly from his ass up his back.

 _Relax. Relax._

Lincoln’s hands put pressure against Michael’s sides, urge Michael to shift up a bit, and Michael moves with them so that Lincoln is able to press their lips together. It’s the first time they’ve kissed like this in years, and Michael wants this to happen, wants this to be good so badly. But the air is too still, the darkness is too heavy, the silence is too thick – so thick that he loses the sounds of their hands moving against each other and the slick wet noises of their lips. He’s losing Lincoln to, even as his brother’s hands try to anchor him to this moment.

There’s too much. Or maybe not enough. The fog is closing in around him. It’s getting hard to see.

Lincoln presses his whole body up against Michael as Michael feels himself losing hold of their kiss, pressing his growing erection against Michael’s leg, but Michael’s own groin does nothing in response, and his stomach begins to knot.

 _  
**Relax.**   
_

But there’s nothing. His shoulders start to ache from the tension holding them and finally Lincoln pulls back and tries to catch his eye. Michael looks over toward the window, tries to see the city outside, but it’s too dense, too fuzzy to his eyes, and he tries to distract Lincoln by rubbing against him. Lincoln isn’t buying it. He moves a hand down to grasp Michael’s flaccid cock through his shorts and squeezes – lightly at first and then with a bit more intent, and Michael squirms at that, flinching away from his brother against his own will.

“Michael…” Lincoln begins, trying to get a hand on Michael’s twisting body.

“It’s okay,” Michael replies quickly, reaching down to stroke Lincoln’s rapidly fading erection, but Lincoln – hissing quietly for a brief second – grabs his wrist to stop him. “It’s okay,” Michael says again. “I can just…” and he tries to move down out of Lincoln’s grasp to reach his brother’s cock with his mouth.

Lincoln holds onto him firmly. “No,” he says.

“Why?”

“Fuck, Michael,” Lincoln breathes, letting his head fall back against the arm of the couch. “I’m not even hard anymore.”

Michael sits all the way up at this and drops his hands to his lap. He’s straddling Lincoln’s waist at this point, but neither of them are getting anywhere from the friction between them, and finally Lincoln tugs gently at Michael’s arms to bring him back down, Michael’s head against Lincoln’s chest. They don’t talk about it, and Michael counts Lincoln’s heartbeats until he finally falls asleep sometime around dawn.

A week later and they’re back in the same place. Lincoln pushes his tongue into Michael’s mouth, brushes his hands against Michael’s ribs and upwards to remove Michael’s t-shirt, eyes jumping a bit as Michael’s tattooed flesh is revealed, though he tries valiantly to hide it. And Michael grinds down on him desperately, trying so hard to make something happen. Lincoln thrusts up against Michael and moans into his mouth, clutching one hand in his brother’s grown-out hair. Michael works a hand between them and massages Lincoln’s cock through the other man’s pants for a moment before yanking at the zipper and dipping his hand inside to grasp the hard flesh.

This makes Lincoln’s hips jump in response, and Michael licks at Lincoln’s chin before moving down to take his brother’s cock into his mouth before Lincoln has the chance to protest. He sucks lightly on just the head for a moment, licks a stripe down the underside as he listens to Lincoln swallow a grown, then moves to fully engulf the flesh when Lincoln breathes out Michael’s name.

Michael glances up at his brother but doesn’t pull away, and Lincoln repeats his name, louder this time.

“Michael,” he says with his fingers digging into Michael’s shoulder. “I don’t – I want…”

Michael tries to ignore him, tries to focus on moving his own tongue in time with his mouth up and down on Lincoln’s cock, tries to ignore the feeling of bugs crawling across his skin that has abruptly begun to creep its way into his consciousness. It’s not Lincoln – Lincoln is perfect, alive and perfect, and it should be enough.

“Stop,” Lincoln breathes out, and when Michael doesn’t Lincoln tugs sharply at Michael’s shoulder to pull Michael off of him.

Michael looks up at his brother and says softly, “Just let me.”

But Lincoln shakes his head and rubs his thumb over Michael’s cheekbone. “That’s not what I want right now.”

Michael doesn’t have to ask what it is Lincoln wants, but it somehow feels like something unattainable right now. He pushes up and off of Lincoln and quickly grabs his t-shirt from the floor beside the couch before making a beeline for the bathroom. Lincoln calls quietly after him, but L.J.’s asleep in the next room and Michael knows that Lincoln won’t make too much of a commotion for fear of waking him up.

He sits against on the floor and leans his head back against the door, closes his yes and tries to force the rumbling feeling in his stomach to quit. He’s not too surprised to feel the soft knock at the door a few minutes later and hear Lincoln’s questioning voice filter through the old wood.

“Michael?”

Michael digs his nails into the palm of his hand and doesn’t reply.

“You wanna open the door?” Lincoln jiggles the door handle but the lock is firmly in place and Michael makes no moves to open it.

Michael closes his eyes when Lincoln says his name again. He’s not even really sure what he’s doing in here, why he came in, why he left the couch and the living room in the first place. He’s not sure what he’s doing here, in Rome of all places – why he’s living surrounded by people, strangers, why he’s alive at all, and maybe he’s not, maybe this is all some insane illusion, and now his head is spinning.

This is insane, he’s going insane. Maybe. He’s not sure. The doorknob shakes again and Michael’s head is swimming.

Truth be told, he did think of things other than his plan during the months that it took them to finally be free. His plan consumed him, but that’s not all there was. It didn’t happen often, but there were times late at night in his cell at Fox River when there was no digging to be done or while on work detail out in the yard with no pieces of the plan to complete that he lets his mind wander just a little bit – to his old life, to L.J., to Veronica and her increasing dedication to them, but most often to his brother, and on a few rare moments, to his sexual relationship with Lincoln.

He could count on one hand the number of times he even thought about sex while at Fox River, but when he did – when he allowed his hand to drift downwards and close tentatively around his own cock in the darkness of the late night – it was Lincoln who was in his head.

They had long since ended whatever it was that had been between them – begun when Michael should have been too young, but wasn’t, and never spoken about or directly referred to in the light of day – by the time that Lincoln was accused of murder; Veronica and Lisa and L.J. and other nameless distractions had taken a toll on both brothers, and on their relationship, and when Lincoln had announced that he and Veronica were getting back together shortly after his marriage to Lisa had ended, Michael realized that Lincoln-his-lover had become far too entangled with Lincoln-his-brother.

He stopped answering the door when Lincoln dropped by his apartment late at night, stopped coming over when Lincoln hinted that he had the afternoon off and nothing to do, told himself that he was letting his brother find his own path finally, one without Michael there holding the safety net that would inevitably include sex as well as comfort and financial help. Told himself that he needed to pull away to save Lincoln and save their relationship.

But it had never stopped him from occasionally retreating to the farthest corner of his mind, where he stored away his darkest fantasies of Lincoln abandoning Veronica or Lisa or whoever else and giving himself wholly to Michael; of Lincoln actually saying out loud that he wanted Michael the way that Michael wanted him; of Lincoln kissing him, touching him, stroking him, sucking him.

So why now, when he has Lincoln right there in his hands, he can’t bring himself to let anything happen, Michael doesn’t know. It makes no sense.

But his life makes very little sense at this point, and there’s still the feeling there of bugs crawling up his skin. He may or may not be losing his mind. He wants to have sex with Lincoln, but he doesn’t. Can’t.

He wakes the next morning with his head against the cold tile of the floor and L.J.’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Dad, what’re you doing out here?”

There’s a grumble that Michael can’t make out and then, “Nothing,” and the floorboards creak outside, footsteps walking away. Michael wonders if Lincoln spent the whole night on the other side of the door.

-

L.J. starts school once fall rolls around. They’ve been in Italy for almost three months, and Lincoln hasn’t tried to touch Michael with anything other than brotherly affection in two weeks. Michael’s not really counting, but he’s pretty sure that it’s actually just about two weeks, three days, and some-odd hours.

They haven’t talked about it at all, but that goes without saying – the incestuous relationship (or lack thereof) between one’s brother and himself is not a subject often approached anyway. They share the couch most nights, though once or twice Michael feels himself growing jittery and uncomfortable and pulls the sleeping bag out so that he can stretch out on the floor while Lincoln watches him from the couch.

L.J. starts school, and Michael loses the last bit of distraction he’d had left. He’d been the one to look after L.J. since they arrived here, while Lincoln went off to work (and Michael tried so very hard not to think of gender roles and their impact on the implications of that arrangement…), to study language with him and get him ready to tackle school once again, and now he’s left alone in the apartment most days, looking through Want Ads and occasionally stopping by the church a few blocks away to volunteer in their homeless shelter.

He feels vaguely listless most days, beginning to lack in purpose. He’s saved his brother from prison, helped save his nephew from capture and torture, gotten many people killed in the process, so now what’s left? Looking over his shoulder every time he goes to the supermarket and choking on his breath when a stranger’s arm brushes his. Feeling himself slowly losing grip and slipping away.

By the time the seasons begin to shift and the air grows a bit crisper, he’s left feeling stripped bare, and like he’s watching his life tick on by from somewhere outside his body. L.J. is beginning to flourish in his new surroundings, comfortable for the first time in years. Lincoln is watchful of everything and everyone, concerned for his brother, but seems to take a certain amount of contentment from his son’s growth.

Michael may still be stuck in Fox River, or in Sona, or out in the dusty, hot desert somewhere.

He gets the urge suddenly one night – to touch Lincoln, so badly his fingers itch and ache with it, and he does so without really thinking about it. It’s late into the night, as it always is when these things happen, and Lincoln is lying stretched across the couch on his stomach, drooling into his pillow as one arm dangles down to rest against the floor. Michael had been watching him from across the room, lying on his side with one arm propped up under his head, and it had come so out of nowhere that he’s across and next to the couch, one hand sweeping gently over Lincoln’s eyebrow before he even realizes it.

It takes about three nanoseconds for Lincoln to stir, going straight from zero to awake in less time than it takes for Michael to snatch his hand away.

“Whats’a matter?” Lincoln asks, frantically looking around the room for any sign of trouble.

“Sorry,” Michael whispers. “I’m sorry, go back to sleep.”

“What’s wrong?” Lincoln asks again, ignoring the apology. “You okay?” He rubs one eye while watching Michael with the other.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Michael replies sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to – ”

Lincoln grabs Michael’s hand before Michael can move back across the room and end whatever he’d started this night. Lincoln grabs his hand and gives him a hard, serious gaze; one that says that he knows exactly what is going on, and it makes Michael shudder.

He tries to pull away again and Lincoln whispers, “Don’t.”

So he doesn’t. Lincoln rubs his thumb gently over Michael’s wrist, and Michael lets him. He tugs just a little on Michael’s arm, and Michael moves forward without protest. The urge to touch has left him, just as abruptly as it had arrived, but it’s been replaced by a mixture of fear and discomfort, and desire to show Lincoln that everything’s alright, so he wills his body to be pliant in his brother’s hands.

Lincoln pulls him forward and moves a hand up to cup Michael’s jaw, one finger stroking Michael’s cheekbone. Michael’s heart twists. When Lincoln pulls him down to kiss him, it becomes one of those moments – he’s not really there, not really with Lincoln, not really in the room; he’s watching from outside himself, somewhere disconnected from his brother.

“Michael.” Lincoln’s voice penetrates the fog in Michael’s head, and Michael blinks a few times to bring his brother into focus. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t – ”

“Tell me what’s going on,” Lincoln repeats, his voice darkening.

Michael shakes his head and sucks in a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want me – this?” Lincoln asks, the most direct acknowledgement of anything sexual between them either of them has ever made. It eases Michael back into the here and now with Lincoln.

“Yes,” he answers quietly, honestly, trying desperately to hold onto Lincoln’s fierce gaze.

“Because we don’t have to – have to do this,” Lincoln continues as if not hearing Michael’s reply, stumbling over words that have never been spoken out loud. “I promise you, it’s okay, we don’t – ”

“I _do_ want it,” Michael cuts in, making a grope for Lincoln’s hand and grabbing on tightly.

Lincoln’s face sours just a bit, his eyebrows knotting together in a look of frustration. “Then why do we keep stopping? What’s the problem here?”

At this Michael has to look away for fear that his brother might see just how tiny and meek he really is. “I don’t know,” he says. “I just can’t.”

“Michael…”

“I want to, but I _can’t._ Something’s…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

He can’t say anything more than that. He can’t put into words the detachment, the fear, the flashes of memories that jump through his head at the most inopportune times, the swirls of other unnamable emotions that leave him feeling bereft of his true self. How can he describe what he can’t make sense of?

But somehow Lincoln seems to understand. Or maybe he doesn’t, but he nods and squeezes Michael’s hand and draws him in to press their foreheads together. Michael releases a shuddering sigh and feels his chest release just a bit. There’s something akin to relief stirring in him from just that bit of confession, and he allows Lincoln to pull him down and kiss him once again.

After a moment of Lincoln’s lips pressed against his, Lincoln shifts onto his back and allows Michael to climb up and straddle his waist, their chests pressed together. They stay like that for a while, Michael’s chin propped against Lincoln’s collarbone, Lincoln’s hand running lightly over Michael’s back, and it feels a little too much like every other time they’ve tried to make something happen here.

They’re in the same place again and nothing is going to change. Nothing is going to make this time different from the others. Michael begins to tense up when he shifts his leg and feels Lincoln hardening, and his mind jumps to Bellick, pressing him into a wall and promising that he’d see nothing but the inside of four brick walls from now until forever.

“Michael,” Lincoln whispers, then repeats it louder so that Michael looks up at him.

Lincoln stares back down at Michael and continues rubbing his back carefully. Calmly. Michael feels anything but. He closes his eyes and sucks in air as if his lungs have been denied for years. Lincoln presses a hand firmly into the middle of Michael’s back.

“Open your eyes,” he orders, and Michael can’t help but obey.

Lincoln begins drawing Michael’s shirt up and then pull it off to toss on the floor, and this time he keeps his gaze steady as he stares down Michael’s tattoos. Michael’s pretty sure that he’ll burn up under Lincoln’s eyes any moment now. He wants to hide the tattoos always, wants to scrub them right off of his body every time he glances in the mirror before getting into the shower, but there’s nothing he’ll ever be able to do, and as he thinks about that his skin begins to crawl, as if the tattoo wants nothing more to do with Michael than he wants to do with it.

His eyes begin to drift shut once again as Lincoln smoothes a hand up one arm and then down his side, his lids falling without his even realizing until Lincoln’s insistent voice pounds through his haze.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he says, digging his nails lightly into Michael’s side. “Keep your eyes open. Keep your eyes on me.”

Michael looks down at Lincoln as Lincoln rises up to kiss him softly again. His eyes remain open as they kiss, as Lincoln runs his tongue hesitantly over Michael’s lower lip, as Lincoln breaks the kiss to pull off his own shirt and then tugs Michael back against him.

They kiss for days, maybe years, languishing in the simple act, and Lincoln doesn’t push for anything more, save a few lingering strokes along the small of Michael’s back and a few shifts in his body to bring his erection in contact with some part of Michael’s body. Michael hums when Lincoln moves to lick across his cheek and then suck on the skin just under his ear.

Lincoln squeezes Michael anywhere he can reach – his shoulder, his side, his cheek – whenever Michael begins to tense up and they pause for the briefest of seconds as Lincoln reminds Michael of his presence, and Michael takes a moment to let his mind register that it’s Lincoln, Lincoln, his brother, beneath him. There’s no one else here in this room with them, and yes, Michael reminds himself, they are here together, with nothing at all between them right now.

He’s still not hard, and he’s trying not to notice or think too much about it, but it’s difficult not to notice that something should be happening right about now that isn’t. He’s growing frustrated and bites Lincoln’s lip none too gently, grinding his hips against Lincoln’s hopelessly.

“Stop,” Lincoln tells him in a somewhat breathless voice.

Relax. Relax.

“Just relax,” Lincoln says to him out loud. “Lemme just…”

Michael runs a tongue over his own lips and nods, pulling back a bit so that he and Lincoln can lock eyes. Lincoln watches him for a few moments, not moving much except to run his thumb back and forth over Michael’s arm where he’s gripping firmly. Michael gets a little twitchy under the hard gaze and almost pulls out of Lincoln’s grasp.

“I’m okay,” he says, just a bit shakily.

“You’re okay,” Lincoln repeats back to him, tone steady and firm. He pulls Michael’s head towards him and sits up a bit to whisper into Michael’s ear. “I’m right here. You’re okay. I’m right here with you.”

Michael nods and Lincoln keeps whispering to him. Love bein’ here next to you. Saved my life. You’re so good, Michael. On and on, breathes bits of nothing into Michael’s ear and when Michael feels the push of that something upon his mind – the one that wants him to think that those are T-Bag’s hands running across his skin, that wants to muddle his thoughts and take Lincoln away from him – Michael hears his brother’s voice.

“Want you, Michael, always wanted you.” Lincoln strokes Michael’s back and moves both hands down to grasp his ass. “M’not gonna let you go.” They’re words that he will probably deny ever saying once morning rolls around, would never be caught saying aloud in the daytime, the kind of flowery (flowery for Lincoln, anyway) language that can be common in bed, but Michael locks onto them and doesn’t let go.

He won’t let go of everything just yet.

Lincoln licks Michael’s ear and sucks a little on the lobe in between broken sentences, bites softly a few times as he speaks and Michael’s breath gets short when Lincoln moves a hand around to his front and rests it on his crotch. He stops speaking, pauses everything he’s doing, as if gauging Michael’s reaction, and Michael starts to panic at bit at that.

“Keep talking,” he pants at a nearly frantic pace, thrusting a bit to make it clear that he wants Lincoln to continue with what he’s doing.

So Lincoln does.

“So good, so good Michael,” he says. “I almost can’t – god, wanna touch you.”

He keeps going and Michael nods along and rises up onto his elbows so that he can look down at his brother.

Lincoln squeezes him and then pushes his hand down into Michael’s shorts to grasp his cock. Michael bites his lip.

“C’mon,” Lincoln urges. He draws his tongue in a line up Michael’s neck.

“Wanna be with you all the damn time,” Lincoln breathes. Michael knows that’s not really true, but it shifts something deep inside his chest.

“Never letting you go again.”

Michael sighs softly when he finally feels something in him stir, and he smiles a bit as he bites his lip and nods again for no real reason. Lincoln smiles a little too, but his expression fades to one of concentration as he stares down at his own wrist moving slowly up and down. He runs the tip of his finger over the head and Michael’s hips thrust forward unconsciously, his breath stuttering.

“Yeah,” Michael breathes out. His erection is growing and Lincoln kisses his shoulder and strokes him a bit harder. “Yeah, yeah.”

He bites his lip when Lincoln twists his hand, and it’s perfect. There’s no one else in this room anymore, just him and Lincoln, and nothing but a few articles of clothing separates them right now. He thinks for a few minutes that things are going to be okay, that he’s okay, and that’s when he allows his mind and his body to relax enough to be coaxed into orgasm. Lincoln’s hand has sped up a bit, alternately twisting and squeezing and giving just enough pressure to make Michael squirm and sigh and gasp.

It doesn’t happen immediately, but when he feels that desperate curling in his gut Michael begins thrusting into Lincoln’s hands, no care at all for timing or coordination with Lincoln’s stroking. Just a desperate need to let his body go, to exorcise some of what’s been building up within him for these many months.

It’s with a soft moan that Michael comes, spilling into Lincoln’s hand as his brother continues stroking him up and down, up and down. His muscles seem to lock in place, but he manages to keep his eyes open and trained on Lincoln’s face, and finally Lincoln’s eyes come back to meet his. His breath stutters again and he bites his lip as Lincoln works the last drops out of him until finally he can’t take the touch anymore and tilts his hips away.

Lincoln kisses his forehead, an impossibly silly gesture that nearly overwhelms Michael with its intimacy, and he slumps against his brother then, falling asleep only minutes later.

-

Maybe it is possible to be normal. Maybe they can be okay. But maybe not. Most days, when the fog in his head grows thick and Michael feels like he can hardly see Lincoln and L.J., he thinks probably not. He’ll spot someone – Veronica or T-Bag – out of the corner of his eye, turn and they’re gone, never actually there, he knows. He’ll get that uncomfortable, overwhelmed feeling when strangers surround him and spend several days locked up inside of their apartment, busying himself with fixing things and general housekeeping. He’ll let his body move, act almost on its own, without realizing it until minutes later. He’ll feel himself tugged away, empty, out of touch, and he’ll do his best not to let Lincoln or L.J. realize any of it.

And most days he’ll wonder if he’s going crazy, or if he’s maybe already there. And then some days he’ll wander into the living room to find L.J. writing furiously an essay for school, or Lincoln will touch his shoulder softly and give him a half-smile, and Michael can feel himself loosening, calming, returning to himself. And he’s pretty sure in those moments that he’ll be okay.

 **-end-**


End file.
